Alexander Grayson's Return
by Indistinct In The Twilight
Summary: The year is 2014. The long forgotten name of Alexander Grayson has resurfaced on the American east coast. What happened five years ago between the elusive billionaire and the Southern belle, Maggie Peters? Or, more importantly, what is going to happen now, when she has nowhere left to run? Told (at least in part) in the spirit of Bram Stoker's original piece.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer - I don't own the rights to Dracula, the novel or the popular television show. **

* * *

I stumbled along the poorly lit, cobblestoned university lane, my head throbbing painfully. The building was backed by dense forest. This was one of the oldest buildings of the recently established university, and it represented the outermost perimeter. The door to the library was almost imperceptibly propped ajar by a small rock. Had it not been my destination I would not have noticed it in my impaired state.

I slid through the crack. I ambled seemingly aimlessly through the dingy forgotten halls. Dust and cobwebs hung from the corner's of bookcases. The carpet was worn down by age and moth bites. This was the old library, home of the books that nobody cared to read anymore. Anything in good condition had been moved to the new building that had been resurrected across campus several months ago. There was no heat, nor air conditioning. The atmosphere was stuffy with neglect. A handful of hoodlums had desecrated the rotting wood of the shelves with spray paint obscenities and the like.

The old library was unique in the fact that it was too old to attract the upstanding citizens and too new to be surrounded by mystery. Everyone knew that it was just a building, decrepit and full of asbestos, condemned and forgotten. I was attracted to it because it was the only place in the entire free world where I could truly be alone.

I sat down ungracefully, legs sprawled out in either direction, on the cold floor between a pile of weather worn, aged books, and a cracked Tiffany knock-off lamp. I pulled at the string and dim yellow light illuminated the titles. The black leather of the words had been nearly effaced off of the spines, but I knew them all too well -

_Monsters of Literature_

_Daemones Europae_

_Lucrurile Rele_

I laid my head against the shelf and closed my eyes trying not to retch from the foul taste of booze on my breathe. Liquor didn't taste good going down, but it tasted worse coming up. I pushed my damp hair back into place. I wasn't sure if I was sweating from intoxication, the stuffiness of the library, or from illness.

I heard the shuffle of approaching feet. My eyes opened to slits.

There was a man before me, dressed in a black trench coat with an upturned collar, and a black fedora. I couldn't see his face.

I rolled my head to the side and stared intently at his patent leather, untarnished shoes. "If you're here to take advantage of me sir, I am obligated to tell you that I don't give a damn. I will not put up a fight so I won't be much of the conquest."

"What makes you think that I'm interested?" The voice rasped, sounding like a bemused Christian Bale as Batman. I tried to see his face, but he was awash in shadows.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe it's the sketchy-creeper get-up, or the fact that you're in an abandoned university library, despite the fact that you're clearly not a student and it's well past normal person's waking hours."

His silence smiled condescendingly at me.

"Well," I said at length. "This has been fun, but this is my street corner so go find your own."

"I find it amusing that you haven't managed to bring up anything besides sexual promiscuity thusfar in this conversation."

"I'm drunk."

"You're depraved." He put a satisfactory emphasis on the last.

I coughed as bile rose up warming my cheeks. "Maybe." Was all I could manage.

I wished he would go away. I'd came to the library with the intention of crashing in blissful, silent peace.

I shut my eyes wearily. "I mean, you don't see much action when your husband sends you away. Unfortunately for me, and the imaginary army of men busting down my door, I have always believed strongly in faithfulness."

"Why do you not apply for divorce?" He rasped.

"Can't. After the most embarrassing moment of my life, my husband up and disappeared. The bastard. Don't know where he went. His house was completely empty the next week when I decided to go back."

"Why did you go back?"

"Why do you ask so many questions?" I countered.

"Why remain faithful?" He persisted. "Surely there must have been others you desired. Lovers."

I shivered at the memory. "There was one once. But he was before. Since, I've been cursed to feel nothing but revulsion for him now."

"Besides," I coughed again. "It's the right thing to do. Being faithful."

"Said who?"

I shrugged feebly. "My gut?" I ventured.

"Right and wrong are abstract concepts. Thirst is a measurable quantity which is neither good nor bad."

My eyes opened in surprise. I became more awake, and aware of the strangeness of the conversation. I couldn't think straight to identify specifically why, but I knew I should feel threatened by this guy. His whole bearing exuded danger. A faint feeling of deja vu poked at me, but my wits were severely dulled by the six shots I'd consumed in the last hour.

"It simply is. And, as it stands, you are dehydrated."

"You're telling me." I moaned wiping away a large drop of sweat as it trickled down the side of my face.

He didn't say anything. The silence grew stale. "If you knew my husband," I croaked out. "You would understand. There are two possibilities. One is that my disloyalty would please him immensely, in which case, I'll be damned if I see him wring any happiness from me. The other is that his ire would be evoked by my actions, which would be deadly for all parties involved."

Though there was nothing inherently comical about the statement, he chuckled. "How would he know?"

"He watches me."

"Careful." The voice was teasing, though there was a hint of a lethal edge present. "You're verging on paranoia."

"I remember when they used to use words as nice as paranoia. Doesn't it sound less hopeless than 'unsound' and 'self-destructive'." I tried to sound mocking but it came out childish.

"They?"

I stiffened under the suspicion I'd said too much. "My family. They attempted to rescue me from my betrothed prior to our nuptials. They were literally lining out my funeral plans when I came home a few hours after we had said our vows. Imagine their elation at finding me 'home again, home again, lickety split." I heard my words slurring.

"I should've been relieved." I laughed mirthlessly and scrunched my nose. "I should have been able to forget."

"But you didn't." The voice had hardened gratingly.

"Nope." I shook my head sloppily. "Couldn't bring myself to it. I tried. Can't say I didn't try. I worked at mending my relationship with Alton, but it wasn't there for me anymore. Then I turned to academia. I did what I was supposed to. I got my degree, I studied harder than the rest, graduated with honors, etcetera, etcetera. Then I got the job my parent's always wanted me to have."

It got quiet. "I never drank, not until that night!" I said suddenly feeling very defensive and angry. My eyes flicked up to the stranger.

"I was walking home from my glamorous nine to five at a the poshest office in town, where I had my very own cubicle, and I was followed by some sniveling hulk. When I noticed his closeness, I started jogging to my car. When he started jogging, I took off. I reached my car door, flung it open, and looked back - but no one was there. I remember the parking lot. It was so silent. I couldn't hear the traffic, or the wind. It was like Somebody had turned off the world's ambiance."

"Then there was this low, throaty growl, like a lion, and it was followed by a scream." Unbidden tears mixed with sweat burned my cracked lips. "I hopped in the car, drove as far and as fast as I could. I eventually passed this bar and just turned in. There it was, neon lights and all. Full to bursting of normal failures, with typical issues, tragically suckish lives. The idea of company appealed to me, so I went in. When I got the bar, I discovered, much to my chagrin, it wasn't people I wanted. I wanted distraction. So I ordered a cold tall one, and I haven't been sober since."

"You chose to wallow in pity." He was disgusted.

"No. No. I don't want you or anyone else to pity me either. Pity would equate to defeat. I quit my other job, but I have a job at the new library across campus. I just want to be alone." I lightly stroked the cover of the book on top of the pile.

"How did you come to be here?" His tone told me he wasn't asking for his benefit.

I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of an answer, but my lips moved of their own accord. "Because I lost any hope of a real job in addition to my apartment because every penny I scrounged up goes to work enabling my addiction." Why did I volunteer all of that! He didn't need to know anything. I huffed in frustration as I found myself continuing. "I don't want to be alone with my thoughts, but I don't want to around anyone else. I feel like he was this black hole - opaque, infinite, daunting, paralyzing - magnetically drawing in the people in his orbit to their oblivion. He was like death, but the irony therein lay. His power made him more real, more alive than any sentient being I'd ever encountered. Everyone else in my life is a star, intangible, distant, characterized by their pretty dreams and the pretty dreams of others. They're too far away to be real. This is why I drink. When the memory of him pervades against my defenses" Aghast I realized I was reciting directly from my diary. An entry justifiable by the broken-heartedness of a newly-wed, but, in fact, the entry was less than three days old.

"Your planetary metaphors are inspiring." He remarked dryly.

"I didn't mean…" I began fiercely.

"Oh you mean every word." A coolness trickled down the warm skin of my back. "You're a masochist."

"I'm a victim."

He snorted. "You walked away. He let you go free."

"Don't make him sound so magnanimous. He didn't really let me go. Not out of kindness."

"What then?"

"I'm not sure."

He intook sharply in vexation. "Nevertheless, your freedom eliminates victimization except by your own hand."

I giggled slightly, and sighed. "Oh, I've been robbed sir."

"Really?" He was not amused. "Of what? Your heart." I didn't have to see his sneer to feel it.

"Worse." My smile actually reached my eyes. "My death."

He grew quiet for some time.

"I was going to be so damn noble." I whispered. "He had to go and ruin it."

"Before you never used profanities. You were so wide-eyed and innocent." He said softly. His voice had lost the rasp to it.

My breath hitched in my throat, causing me to hiccup. "People change."

"Not always for the better." I had to strain to hear him. When he spoke again, his voice had regained hardness and edge. "Not so much as to be disloyal. Even when the man you love is a monster."

The voice undisguised was a rumbling purr. "If he came back to spirit you away, would you go willingly?"

It couldn't be.

Careful not to appear obvious, I slowly moved my hand to wrap my fingers around the lamp. "He still terrifies me, because he would as soon see me dead as not. I would run from him." I didn't sound very convincing, so I tried again. "I will always run from him."

"But you've no where else to run."

I stood to my feet as quick as I could, and as I lifted the lamp to throw it his hand was there just above mine on the lamp, calmly restraining me with the effortless strength he was known for. The light illuminated his features.

Black, hard eyes; pale, translucent skin; glistening red lips.

I backed away madly, stumbling over my feet, and hitting my head against the shelf. A burst of light blinded me. I retched down onto my books then promptly slumped over. Full of remorse, I dreamt of stars.


	2. Chapter 2

Maggie Peter's Journal

January 5, 2009

At night these memories haunt me, despite my best efforts to direct my attention elsewhere. Momma and Daddy have asked that I no longer speak of it - they say for my benefit, but I expect it is primarily for theirs. My friends would listen dutifully, but their faces become drawn and guarded when I bring up the topic. It has gotten to the point where I can the strain it puts them under to be in the same room with me. I understand. It was horrific for them too. If I were my old self I would not speak of it. I used to do such a good job of keeping my deepest emotions under wraps, but it is too taxing now. Everything exhausts me, even thinking, but thinking, or rather remembering, is all I can do.

My family would have me start school at semester, and I will, but in order to do so I must be able to function.

This journal is a last resort. I must write the memories away. It's been four months, but I remember each minute with painful clarity.

It was the summer after high school. We, my friends and I, were staying at Alton's summer home on the northern corner of the east coast.

Alton's family was in business with all of our fathers who owned small-time energy businesses in New Orleans, Louisiana. His father, a CEO of a large chemical manufacturing company in New York, was the driving force behind our parent's wealth and status. Alton's father was descended from old money but had continued to accumulate an immeasurable amount of his own wealth.

As children Alton's visits were the highlight of our years. Alton was the inverse of what a rich child ought to be. He was kind, humble, and amiable. He loved to roll around in the dirt along with the rest of us. He disliked the boys at his private school, but loved the trio of us. Who were we?

There was Annie, with her smarts and sense of adventure, hair flaxen fair, eyes, blue and bright. Conner, who was near as rich as Alton, but was more backwoods than anybody to be found in any of the parishes. His dirty blonde mop of curls and liquid amber eyes made the little girls swoon. And there was me. With my dull, tawny colored hair and regular brown (no, there were no proper words to describe it than just brown), I was significantly less pretty than Annie. Which was fine. As a child, I was soft-spoken, loved stories and had a fascination with honeysuckles, and that was the extent of my personality. Recreational wise I kept mostly to my books, except when Alton came to town.

We three lived about an hour from the city in a community of well-to-do individuals of the same ilk as ours. The gated circle of gilded homes was encased by a miles of swampy lands. We were told to avoid the swamps, because of gators and wicked voodoo women who would both gladly make a meal of us. This no more kept us away, than the reprimand that the consumption of too much sugar kept us away from the metaphorical cookie jar.

Conner and Annie were the truest of friends. They both played video games religiously, and did this, as well as most everything else together. However, Conner went hunting whenever Annie went shopping (which happened a lot). They went to a charter school in the city, but I was home-schooled by my grandmother. We all interacted primarily when Alton came to town.

We always had wonderful times, managing to slip away unsupervised, and then running about on the outskirts of the swamps, getting eaten alive by bugs of every delineation, and imagining ourselves as anything from questing warriors to fearsome vigilantes.

At night we'd sit on the wrap around porch, swinging on the bench, and taking turns telling stories we'd memorized. Of course, none of us were renown for our ability to recall details with perfection, so the stories changed with each retelling. We Louisiana natives retold legends of voodoo and black magic, while Alton told us the ghost stories of New England. I was always made to go last, because they said that I had the best story-telling voice. It made me shy, and Alton would always hold my hand to keep me from shaking. He would let go when I gained my confidence, lost in whichever tale I was reciting. I remember the first time - we were thirteen or so - when he held my hand for the complete duration of the story, quietly defiant of letting go.

I knew from then on that Alton was in love with me. Though I wasn't sure if I reciprocated his feelings, I was silently thrilled to have attained the admiration of one whom I was so fond of.

When we were older, swamp rendezvous turned into day long visits across the Mississippi border to old graveyards and historic sites. We were adventurers, fixated as in our childhoods, on the endless quest to find a good story. As per predicted, the thrill seekers, Annie and Conner's constant need for each other's company grew into a passionate young love. The erudites, Alton and I, were obviously to follow suit, but we were both more reserved in our affection. Holding his hand, feeling his immovable silent strength next to me, these joys were enough.

Alton was on the same track as his father, but he had declined Harvard school of business for the opportunity to go to Tulane. Coincidentally Annie, Conner, and I were also headed for Tulane in the fall.

Alton had promised to take us to his home after we all graduated. One fine May morning we were delighted to find refurbished antique steamer trunks at our doorsteps with the message "_Pack_".

I put my entire wardrobe - a few summer dresses, some khaki pants and shorts, running shoes, and lounging shoes - easily in the trunk, with room to spare. So I decided to bring my favorite novels, a few journals, and my SLR camera equipment.

We were so heartrendingly optimistic. That's the beautiful thing about wealth. You can afford to avoid cynicism.

We flew out of Jackson to Portland Maine. Alton met us with a limo at the airport. From there we drove a couple of hours along the coast, commentating on the loveliness of the countryside and pleasantly recounting the past few months, to Alton's summer home.

The magnificence stole my breath. The house was surrounded by fifty acres of green pastures and forests. The structure itself was a nice medium - neither too large nor to small. It contained over twenty rooms, divided on the ground level and the basement rooms. It was designed to emanate the coziness of a cottage, with its dark wood outer walls, the ivy clinging to the windows, and gardens growing all round it. It was perfect.

A few yards out the ocean was visible. We all got out of the car and ran, laughing and screeching, down to the cliff. The waves licked lackadaisically at the great black rocks. Sea spray splashed upon our faces. Conner had a squealing Annie held up in an imitation of the famous Titanic pose. A breathless Alton was next to me, gray-green eyes sparkling with delight. I was so happy in that moment that I reached over and pecked him on the cheek. An adorable crimson blush flushed his cheeks as he lightly touched the place where my lips had grazed his skin. He smiled, letting his hand fall away, and slip into mine. It was then that my attention was briefly drawn to a shadowy house resting on the breast of a cliff in the distance.

The land curved creating a semi-bowl of water, and then rose to create the cliff. We were at the lower point of the curve and the house was at the other end. It had the affect of looking like a great wave coming out of the land. And this mysterious, dark house was floating on its crest. The house was too far off to make out any but the distinct features. The best way I can think to describe it is to say it resembled a black castle.

I shuddered and drew closer to Alton. He, Annie, and Conner I noticed were looking at it too, as if inexplicably drawn in by it. I pulled at Alton, waking him from his reverie, and gestured to Annie and Conner until I had their attention.

"We should go unpack our things." I said, uncertain why, but sure that I wanted to be out of sight of the dark home.

The other conceded to this without protest. We walked back and set about making ourselves at home.

As we settled in, Annie and Conner asked Alton about the house across the way. Alton told us what little he knew. There was only one neighbor, a man of mystery and incalculable affluence, the richest man in the world his father had told him. A one, Mr. Grayson. Mystery being the key word. Annie and Conner were intrigued. In spite of myself, I was too. They demanded we visit him. The allure of a potential good story was stronger than the suspicion of the dark castle.

One cannot help but wonder what if. What if we had not gone to him? How would our summer and our lives have played out differently? Could we have continued our whole lives in ignorance of nature's abominations? I have followed the paths of what might have been to their end, and found that there is no situation in which we would have not gone to him eventually. The perfect storm had been brewing long before we arrived in Maine. When I think of this my throat tightens a little and I feel the suffocating hand of inevitability around my throat.

We went the next day, it was around noon, and called upon the estimable Mr. Grayson. Alton drove us in his silver Cadillac CTS (a graduation gift from his father). Mr. Grayson's house was not the black castle we had imagined it to be. The architecture was Victorian, not Medieval. The structure was made of a curious dark wood that was almost black. It was unpainted. The windows were stain-glass, but were barred with thick iron rods. At three stories, it two adjacent towers, topped with crooked spires.

"It looks like something out of a Poe novel!" Annie had gushed.

Annie knocked using a great iron knocker which resembled a bat with an open mouth. A lean, elderly, ebony skinned man with a hooked nose, and a scarred face in a butler's suit answered the door.

He eyed his with beady black eyes. Before we could so much as get a word out out, he spoke. "Mr. Grayson is not taking visitors at the moment. He has asked that you come visit him tomorrow evening." With this he shut the door again.

Annie, Conner, and Alton exchanged wide-eyed looks of disbelief. Muttering they turned back to the car, but I stayed looking down at a curious engraving above the door. I squinted to read the scrawling calligraphy

_Come freely__, go safely, a__nd leave something of the happiness you bring._

"Maggie? Are you coming?" I looked back at him and masked my confusion.

I had read or heard that somewhere. I couldn't place where, but it was familiar.

I walked swiftly to the car with the feeling of eyes at my back.

Even all of this combined did not truly temper my high spirits. I was still unreservedly jubilant. My friends and I had stumbled upon what promised to be quite the adventure.

We went away brimming with excitement. Annie, Conner, Alton and I talked the night away creating fantastical designs of the origins of Mr. Grayson's wealth. Conner fried some herring, and Annie made sweet tea. The South ran strong in their veins. After Annie and Conner had gone to bed, Alton and I stayed up late into the night expanding on our previous conjectures.

In the morning we had decided arbitrarily to wear our finest clothes. Annie and I wore knee length, baby-doll summer dresses, and the boys wore slacks and white button downs. We spent all day getting ready. Alton insisted that we bring a bottle of his father's sherry - bottles of which had been a gift for us for the trip - for Mr. Grayson. We may have been juvenile enough to get excited about the mysterious next door neighbor, but we had not lost our heads completely. We didn't want to be rude.

Alton drove us there. The ride was stunning. The late afternoon sky was painted vibrant pink and rich purple, with a bright orange glow piercing just beyond the low laying cloud bank. The trees had become silhouettes. There was a warmness to their darkness though, sweet and soothing. We were silent, drinking in the scene with a noncommittal intoxication, until Annie began to recite a quote.

"_I love the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I may."_

We were both sitting in the back seat, and I looked over at her in surprise. "Annie, what is that from?"

"From?" She asked dreamily. "Oh, something. Shelley's Frankenstein." She furred her delicate brow. "No, that's not it."

We pulled up to the house. The last golden ray of sunlight directly illuminated the inscription above the door that I read it more clearly than I had before.

"Dracula." I whispered in realization.

"Yes." She said hitting her palm to her forehead with a grin. Then, raising her eyebrow, she asked. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess." I lied. I immediately felt guilty. I never lied to anyone, much less my friends. But before I could amend the situation Annie and the others had already gotten out of the car and were walking toward the door.

This time Conner knocked. The same man from before answered the door.

An awkward silence ensued.

"We brought sherry." Alton said lifting up the bottle.

"Follow me." His expression was stony as he spun on his heels.

The inside of the house was decorated in the warm browns, violets, and burgundies of the Victorian era. The parlor the hooked nosed man lead us to was something else. It was done in deep reds. The light was provided by wax candles. The man gestured for us to sit, and promptly left the room.

Conner and Annie were atremble with eagerness. I smiled at Alton when they put their foreheads together and whispered frenziedly about the increasing enigma of our host. They shared a love seat while Alton and I sat in adjacent wing back chairs. The room was inundated in the rosy light of the evening which poured in from a solitary window in the corner. The glass windows at the front were stained, and this was no exception. The glass was done in all reds like the room, giving everything a sensuous glow. I remember thinking how romantic the entire situation was, in the true sense of the word

I was the first to see him when he came in. I have no doubt this was done purposefully. The hushed babble of the others ceased when they saw him. We were arrested by his presence.

The thing that stood out to me primarily was his age. He was older than us, mid-thirties perhaps, but too young to have commissioned his servant to call us 'young folk'. His burning gaze held me sway. His head cocked to the side in a slow predatory manner, sizing me up. He was the singularly most handsome man I had ever seen.

His skin was flawlessly pale white. His hair was a deep shade of brown and slicked back with his eyes were a wan blue. His chin was embellished with a neatly trimmed goatee, and above his lips rested a sculpted mustache. On any other middle aged man it would have been creepy and pedificilic. But not on Mr. Grayson.

He was astral, he was chimerical. He was more than us. God, was he beautiful.

He wore a black sweater with a white collared shirt underneath. His hands were placed casually half-in slacks.

He smiled down at us and the mood lightened slightly. He spoke in a smooth British accent, in a tone that was unhurried and inviting. "Welcome to my home, friends. My name is Alexander Grayson."

We blinked at him stupidly.

Alton spoke for us. He stood awkwardly to his feet "Mr. Grayson, allow me to introduce myself." Grayson walked over and took Alton's extended hand with deliberateness. I watched Alton wince under Mr. Grayson's crushing clutch. "I'm Alton Coburn, and these are my friends Annie Sterling, Conner DeLeroy, and Maggie Peters." We stood up in turn. Grayson bowed to us.

"Here." Alton sheepishly offered the sherry bottle to Grayson. "We thought you may like it. We're not much for sherry ourselves."

Grayson accepted the bottle graciously, looked it over once, and sat it down on a side table.

"The Coburns have been my neighbors for some time."

"Well you can't have been here very long." I was surprised to find that I had made the comment.

He directed his reply to Alton. "A few years." He smiled warmly at the group, and clapping his hands he dispelled some of the tension. "Will you join me for dinner?"

"We wouldn't want to impose." Annie's eyes had lost their bashfulness. She never remained daunted for long. She stared confidently at Mr. Grayson.

Conner looked at Annie nervously, but smiled. "Yes, Mr. Grayson. We wouldn't want to be a nuisance."

"We just had to see if what they said about you was true." Annie baited.

Mr. Grayson's eyebrow upturned. "What do they say about me?"

"All sorts of stuff." Her blue eyes sparkled with amusement. "You are shrouded in mystery Mr. Grayson, and we adore a good mystery."

I wished she would shut up.

Conner nodded eagerly. "It's just that you are never seen outside of your home. They say you are fabulously wealthy, but they speak of you as an old hermit."

Alton came to the rescue. "What my friends mean, is that we were curious as to who our neighbor for the summer would be."

"We wanted to make sure you were quite safe." Annie added.

"I see my reputation precedes me." Grayson chuckled startling us all. The sound was the rumble of the distant thunder.

"Are you bothered by it? Your reputation?" Conner asked him.

Grayson favored Conner with a lopsided grin. "Rumors are like mosquitoes. They often carry diseases, but to the adapted man they are nothing more than a nuisance." From over his shoulder Annie flicked her eyes from Grayson to me with a conspirator's glance. Alton noticed and smiled a watery smile. Annie and Conner could lighten any situation. They had their parent's charisma.

Conner nodded in grave respect at Grayson. I noticed that Grayson had cleverly picked up on Conner's Southern background and used an it is his analogy to make him more comfortable. Clearly the man was a master manipulator. My unease increased.

"Will you stay to dinner?" Grayson asked again turning to Alton.

Alton looked at me with his keen green eyes and back at the man. "How can we refuse?" He asked.

Grayson smiled, the predatory semblance returning to his face, though he didn't appear to be looking at anyone. I shivered involuntarily. "Cold Miss Peters?" He asked me without turning a hair.

"You must think us terribly foolish." I remarked. Annie, Conner, and Alton turned to me in marked confusion.

Grayson switched his voracious gaze to me. Suddenly I felt as if he'd been addressing me the whole time. "How typical of the homely girl to demand honest intentions."

Conner's jaw came unhinged. Alton blanched. Annie got red in the face, looking like an entire torrent of insults were about to pour forth from her lips.

I burst into delighted laughter. My hand fluttered to my mouth in surprise - but not embarrassment. "I don't pertain to make demands of you Mr. Grayson. It was an observation."

Alton, Conner, and Annie laughed nervously, as if they just understood that there was some joke they'd initially missed. Grayson chuckled, but it was iniquitous, dripping of portends. His gaze bespoke into life a dreadful premonition that I'd just been damned.


	3. Chapter 3

I woke up wedged between satin sheets. I hated satin.

I threw back the covers in disgust. The simple motion sent a wave pain crashing over me. I whimpered, "God d-"

The blur of movement in the corner caught my eye.

Grey light filtered through the curtains. He stood in shadowy corner, dressed I noticed with a wince, in the same outfit he'd been wearing the first time we'd met.

I froze for a split second, but recovered quickly. I assessed the situation. I was in an unfamiliar bed room that was lavishly decorated in the fine things of bygone eras. No outside bustling noise, so we were in the country. Two doors; one, smaller and propped open (bathroom); two, large, stretching nearly the length of the wall, (exit). The windows were unstained so we were not in Maine (was that relief or disappointment I felt?) The pillows were unmarked thereby ruling out hotels. From what I knew of him, Grayson had multiple other homes, located across the globe. I ascertained that I must be in one of those homes.

Also, I was hungover.

My eyes narrowed with disdain. "I hate satin. You know I hate satin. Yet you conveniently forgot that detail." I pushed my hair back out of my face. "Or you remembered and you're just trying to make my final hours as torturous as possible."

Disinterested, he looked pointedly off to the side. "I don't recall saying these were your final hours." His voice was clipped. He was annoyed.

Good. So was I.

"It's called positive affirmation. If you put it out there in the universe, its more likely to happen." His eyes twitched in irritation as he switched his gaze to me. His eyes had returned to their natural ice blue color.

"I don't suppose you'd be so kind as to tell me I'm dreaming." He continued to stare at me with the same frigid expression. "No?" I threw myself dramatically backward onto the pillows. "Renfield!" I yelled, cringing because the escalation in volume hurt. "I know you can hear me! Bring me -"

Alexander Grayson abruptly came to stand over me, his eyes flashing angrily. "You will not be drinking anymore." His commanding tone broke no argument.

Nevertheless, I stubbornly shut my eyes. "I'm way too sober for this."

"Look at me." I attempted to disobey, but it only made my head hurt worse. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes.

"You know, I'm not overly fond of your doing that." He sat down stiffly at the very edge of the bed.

"It's hard to deal with you reasonably when you're like this." He rebutted, cocking his head to the side.

I pushed myself up so I could level with him. "Why am I here?" I asked him simply.

"Because you were dying." A faintly triumphant grin played at the edge of his lips.

"I was not! I was drunk!"

"You were dying. You left me with no choice. But where else would you rather be? Home? Or should I say, the abandoned university library." He sneered.

"Home is where the heart is."

A familiar, disconcerting predatory look crossed his face. "I think you made it very clear where you heart is."

I clenched my jaw. "Listen, last night -"

He interrupted. "Three nights ago."

"_What_?"

"You would have drowned in your own puke had I not rescued you. As it was, Renfield had difficulties aplenty trying to preserve you from dying from alcohol poisoning."

Alcohol poisoning? How many drinks had I had again? I couldn't remember. After drinking non-stop for a year it took more than a shot or two to get me wasted. It was possible that I had pushed my limit.

I pressed the joint of my thumb between the corner of my eye and nose. "You could have just let me die."

He rolled his eyes. "Again with the masochism."

My face grew hot. "Why did you bring me back?" When he offered no answer I spoke again. "Let's recap shall we? First, you force me to marry you - presumably just so you could kill me - then you tell me to get lost, and now you've kidnapped me and are nursing me back to health. You do realize the insanity of this?"

"A wife's place is by her husband's side." His eyes widened in mock innocence.

I snorted. "That's cute. Try again."

"I noted your choice in literature. Funny, if I didn't know better I'd say you were researching monsters."

Uh, oh. My muscles tightened at the whiff of impending danger. "I was looking for - for a - something." It was weak, but I was unprepared.

He leaned in, quirking up his eyebrow. "Which was?"

Well, he was going to find out sooner or later. If his interest was peaked then it was only a matter of time before he wrung it out of me. Best just to get it over with. "A cure." I said at length. I struggled to maintain a practical air. "You heard what I said so its no use for me to pretend to feel otherwise."

"I was under the impression you sent me away because you didn't need me. I reasoned, if I could find a cure, or at least something that would help you do the things you wanted," I looked over at the window where the sun poured in from the outside world. When I looked back Mr. Grayson had straightened his posture. He was looking frightfully calm. "If I could be useful, you would let me find you again. Or you would find me."

"And what conclusions have you drawn from your research?"

I shook my head. "Nothing of any value. Most anything written on the subject is archaic or riddled with mythology. The only work I read of any substance was an old medical journal entitled '_A __Cure for Death'_I think. The author had some good ideas, but knew nothing about executing them. Besides, I gave that pursuit up in college. The books you saw were more light reading than anything else." A strange expression crossed Mr. Grayson's face. I mistook it for uncertainty. "I believe that there is no cure to be found. It is impossible, Mr. Grayson." I said carefully.

"Nothing is impossible." His eyes bore into mine. "_Mrs. Grayson."_

Horrified, I hid my face in my hands. "Oh, for the love of all that is holy - or unholy, whichever you prefer - I can't get any more pathetic, so if you want to hear me say it, I'll beg. _Please get me something to drink_."

He stood and smoothed his wrinkles. "I won't. No, you're going to sober up. I need you healthy."

My nerve endings tingled. "You need me? For what? Are you going to finish what you started?" Did I sound hopeful?

"Don't tempt me." He turned away, started toward the door, but paused. "While you're in need of distraction, you might get to work on finding that cure." He gestured toward the bookshelf that lined the wall to the right. "It'll give you something to do, and maybe I'll decide to keep you around this time."

I lay back down and stared at the bed canopy. "Or I could lie here and feel sorry for myself."

The door slammed shut. The echo resonated off of the walls.

Big house, then.

"Yep. I'll be here wallowing in pity when you need me." I tilted my head to the side.

The book on the nightstand caught my eye. It was extremely old, and had obviously recently been rebound. There was no markings on the brown, leather cover. Pages had clearly been dog-eared, torn, and marked. Notes were poked out temptingly from between the fraying edges of the papers._  
_

I sighed and shifted out of bed, the callouses on my feet catching on the satin. Satin. Satan. Same thing. Why did it have to be satin? I muttered curses under my breath as I opened the cover to start reading.

*.*.*.*.*

A few hours later Renfield brought me tea. I laid the book back on the nightstand as I watched him walk in. He was looking even older than when last I saw him. In some ways, Renfield was more unnerving than his master. I never knew quite what to make of him.

He held out a steel table with a piping cup of tea and saucer of small cold cuts on it to me. I took it from him

I chuckled then sighed out - "Oh, Renfield. The social conundrum that is the British. Your prisoner may not have contact with the outside world, access to her booze, who is a matter of fact, denied from doing anything apparently, but search for the proverbial needle in a haystack. But, bless your heart, tea time is tea time."

Renfield did not make eye contact when he said, "You have not asked to do anything."

I sat up with tempered excitement. "Can I leave?"

"No."

"Can I have a drink?

"I believe I just brought you one."

"Can I have a drink that contains fermented liquid?"

"No."

"Can I make a phone call?"

"No."

"Can I explore my new home?"

"Yes."

"Outside of this room?"

"No."

"What will happen to me if I attempt to do any of the aforementioned?"

"You will risk becoming the object of his displeasure."

"No harm there then."

Renfield's expression darkened. "I would caution you against foolhardy behavior. He is not in the best of moods."

"What is he going to do to me that he hasn't already done? He's ruined my life. What's next on the agenda? Death? Clearly not because he would have killed me already." I huffed in frustration.

"He has stayed out of your life for half a decade. True, the passage of years are mere moments to him, but it was significant chunk of your mortal existence. If your life is ruined, no one's doing but your own."

Inwardly I shrank. Grayson had said as much before. "He wasn't doing me a favor." I protested. "He was just messing with my head."

Renfield shrugged his bony shoulders. Without further ado he exited the room. I sipped the tea in pensive silence for a time. I could taste the bitter taste of medicine in the drink. It made me drowsy. I sat the table down at my feet, and lay back down. My eyes began to close with thoughts resembling memories flitting in and out of consciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

Maggie Peter's Journal

January 5, 2009 (cont.)

Dinner was a formal affair. Renfield (that was the name of the hooked nose man) appeared to be the only person in Grayson's service. We were served an excellent roast chicken, with some cheese and salad. Grayson opened the sherry and when none of the rest of us would take any poured himself a glass. My friends and I drank what my grandmother would call 'bubbly water', also known as carbonated water. I didn't have a taste for the stuff, and was left feeling quite thirsty.

The dimensions of the dining hall were tiresome. The walls were barely far enough from the table to get into one's chair.

The decor was similar to that of the house - antiquated. The mahogany table held delicate china plates and a wide array of utensils and other such dinner wares. They were unmarred by use, though they were clearly quite old. Apparently Mr. Grayson rarely had visitors. I ran finger discreetly over the table top. Dust coated the skin of my forefinger.

Alton noticed as I wiped my hands on the satin napkins. Simultaneously, he good-naturedly whispered "The plot thickens", and I threw the napkin back onto the table in surprise at the texture.

"Problem?" Mr. Grayson asked from his place at the head of the table. Annie sat to his immediate right, Conner next to her, Alton to Grayson's left, and me opposite Conner, closest to the exit.

"Miss Peters dislikes satin." Alton said for me.

"Dislikes is a mild way to describe it." Annie guffawed. She turned to Mr. Grayson. "She loathes satin. It's personality quirk."

Conner's phone went off in his pocket thankfully averting advancement into the subject. He pulled it out with mumbled apologies. "Huh."

"What is it?" Annie asked.

Conner poked his tongue in his cheek. The phone still rang. "It's dad. Do you mind?" He gestured the phone at Mr. Grayson.

"By all means." Grayson smiled. Conner stood and walked to the corner of the room.

"Hello? Dad. No, no we're not at Alton's. We're having dinner. No, dinner, Dad. Mr. Grayson." He lowered his voice. "Yes, the billionaire Grayson. No. Yes. No. What's up?" Annie and Alton turned in their chairs to watch him.

Grayson took the opportunity to study me. I drew myself up straighter under his discriminating gaze. The rim of the glass rested a breath away from his lips in a tantalizing fashion. My heart pounded violently against my rib cage. Grayson's smile deepened as though he could hear it.

"Everything alright DeLeroy?" His eyes never left mine.

I heard the swish as Conner ended his phone call and shuffled back to his seat. "I'm not sure." Conner turned to Alton. "Dad said there was a huge storm headed our way. Some kind of hurricane."

"It's not the season!" Protested Annie. "And it's too far north."

"Climate change." Alton reminded her.

"Liberal conspiracy. Global warming." Conner muttered.

Annie rolled her eyes. "Careful, Conner. Your Southern is showing."

Alton pulled out his own phone and pressed the weather app. "Prevailing winds at 60 mph., heavy rains at ninety percent chance, flood warning along the coast posted indefinitely." He read aloud.

Imperceptibly, Grayson raised his glass to me, took the sip, and returned his attention to the others.

"The house Alton. It's so low. We'll be swamped." Conner groaned.

Goose-bumps rose up on my skin.

I turned in a fright to Alton. "We should - "

"Stay. You should stay the night. An excellent idea Miss Peters." Panic set in. "You may stay the night here, if you'd like." He continued. "I have ample room for each of you. We're up on higher ground, so you will be safer. In fact, I insist you stay. Your parents would never forgive me if I let their children go home to such a potentially dangerous situation."

I closed my eyes trying to fend off the alarm. With my world black it was easier to believe that Mr. Grayson was just an eccentric man. He couldn't control the weather any more than Alton could predict the lottery. He was being hospitable and a good neighbor. We were the ones who had called on him originally, after all.

"I'm not so sure about staying with a man with barred windows." Annie was poking fun, but there was a challenge in voice.

"I see." Mr. Grayson said, sounding somewhat embarrassed. An awkward silence fell over our entourage.

Annie cleared her throat. "I'm sorry Mr. Grayson, I -"

"No, no it's quite alright Miss Sterling." He sighed. "You want to know my secrets."

My eyes reopened keenly anticipating Mr. Grayson's next words.

He stood and faced the wall, hands clasped behind his back. I noticed he had excellent posture, the like of which was not to be found in our generation.

"Hm." His head cocked to the side, contemplating. "I have many homes, but this is the one I am most fond of. You see, I choose my homes based on the richness of their history. The air you currently breathe was once breathed by the clinically insane nearly seventy years ago. I've had the place renovated to suit my needs, but the windows and window treatments I have preserved in honor of the memory of what it once was. There it is Miss Sterling, I am a hopeless romantic." He turned back to us looking astoundingly beside himself with discomfort. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Shall I give you further proof of my unfortunate temperament? The third story of my home is dedicated entirely to a modest library. Each shelf is packed with books, which I read every day. Renfield can attest to this. I shy away from my peers because I find them to be excessively uninteresting compared to the company of Twain, Dickens, and Poe. I am unmarried, and without a lover, because my late wife died of an unfortunate accident, and I am still in mourning." Here Annie gasped. Her hand flew to her heart. "My considerable wealth comes from my stock in the British Petroleum, my investment in Nissan, and a variety of patents. I am older than I look, and I feel older still. Why did I invite you into my home, in spite of knowing your reasons for coming to see me - to look upon the elusive billionaire? I'm not sure."

Conner was red in the face, Annie had tears in her eyes, and Alton stared blankly into his lap.

"I suppose I should have listened to the Poe adage, 'Leave my loneliness unbroken.'" His hand went out to the wall, as if he were in need of its support.

Twice he had brought up Poe. I thought how this was ironic considering Annie had noted that his house was like something out of a Poe novel. It wasn't until after that when I saw the cleverness of his hand.

"No!" Annie cried standing to her feet in a flash. Her chair made an awful noise as it scratched at the finish on the floors. "Mr. Grayson, we have behaved shamelessly. You have been a kind host and it is now clear to us that you are an honorable man. Please, forgive me. Forgive us." Conner stood with her, nodding. Alton followed in turn, seeming a bit put out. But I remained sitting. Watching.

She flung out her hand to us. "We were insensitive. I am sorry. We're sorry. We want to be your friends. We don't want to be your enemies. Isn't there something we can do to prove it?" She took a tentative step closer to him.

Grayson took his hand away from the wall. He twisted his body to face her. His face utterly calm, he strode over to her, grabbed her hand gently and kissed it ever so softly.

"Miss Sterling I would consider it an affront to my character if you had to strive to prove your friendship. All is forgiven."

Annie drew back her hand with a slight blush on her cheeks. "You will stay with me until the storm is over." Grayson told Alton.

Alton shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "Thank you Mr. Grayson. We are indebted." was all he could say.

"Let us retreat to the parlor while Renfield cleans up and prepares your rooms." Renfield appeared in the doorway. "I am in such good spirits, I may treat you young gentlemen to some cigars." Grayson clapped Conner on the shoulder and drew him out of the room. Annie brightened up immediately and followed after them.

"An insane asylum!" She winked at me on her way out. "Of all the things."

Alton sighed deeply and trudged out of the room looking altogether defeated.

My gaze flicked toward Renfield who had started cleaning up. "Let me help you." I started to pick up a plate, but Renfield grabbed it with surprisingly quick reflexes for an old man. .

"I can manage." Renfield said.

"Please. Where I'm from if you help eat the meal, you help clean it."

Renfield paused mid-reach for a dish. "I think it would be best if you joined the others in the parlor."

The rebuff stung. With my head drooping low, I stood up and walked out of the room.

The hallway was poorly lit. There were no overhead lights, a sign of the age of the house. The gas lights that lined the walls eerily resembled were few paintings and no pictures. The hallways ran tight and long.

Uncertain which way they went, I walked in the general direction we'd come in. The dining hall was on the second story. I stopped about halfway down the hall in front of massive glass window - the largest and most detailed I'd seen. Rain had started coming down. It splattered the glass noisily from outside.

The glass depicted a scene of a turret of a castle looking out over a vast green moor. A girl, raven haired dressed in an elegant white dress leaned out of the one window at the top of the tower as though searching the lands below.

"Miss Peters."

I jumped back and muffled a gasp. "Mr. Grayson. You startled me." The yellow light made him look ghoulish.

He looked at the glass. "May I tell you something?"

I bit my lower lip. "If you must."

His lips quirked upward. "This is the true reason I bought the house. This glass."

"It's beautiful." I conceded. I perused him. "The true reason implying that what you said at dinner was a lie?"

He pursed his lips, but offered nothing to the contrary.

"All good lies are ninety percent truth and ten percent falsity." I quoted as I reached out to run the back of my fingers over the cool of the glass. "Does she remind you of your wife?"

The change that came over him was evident. His manner had been beguiling. Suddenly he became cold.

"Do you ever consider the rain Miss Peters?"

"What of it?"

He stuck out his finger and traced the path of a water drop as it slid down the back of the pane.

"Thirst can be measured. There is a spectrum in which your level of thirst falls, from somewhat thirsty to parched. When the ground is thirsty it waits for rain. Sometimes it waits and waits, but the rain never comes. The nutrients in the ground will die from lack of water. Is the rain cruel?"

"The rain isn't sentient."

"Then the thirst of the ground is irrelevant?"

"It's neither here nor there. Nature isn't inherently good or evil."

"So nature is amoral?" He stopped tracing the water droplet. His smirk caused me to shiver. "Man is a part of nature is he not? If nature is amoral, then so is man."

"You're twisting my words. Man is a sentient being. He can understand the difference between right and wrong."

"The best lies are ninety percent truth and ten percent falsehood." He mimicked me. "What does the ground need?"

"Water."

"If the rain does not come how will the ground get the water?"

"It won't."

"Wrong. Man will till the earth, and bring water from his reservoirs to the ground that the ground may be fruitful."

I thought this over. "But man will only bring water to the land that he needs to survive."

"And there in lies the truth you've been searching for." Grayson squinted at the glass. "Take her to her room for the night please Renfield."

I was hardly stunned by the sudden appearance of Renfield behind me.

"Yes sir."

Grayson turned his back on me, the words, "Good night Miss Peters. Sleep well." issuing from him as he disappeared down the hall.


End file.
